


The Archer and His Medic

by Luna_Hart



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5 Times, 5 plus 1, Blood and Injury, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Clint Barton, M/M, Medical, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Steve Rogers, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 16:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21341071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: Five times someone saw Clint Barton willingly accept medical treatment and one time they all saw something more.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Avengers Team, Clint Barton/OMC, Clint Barton/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 198





	The Archer and His Medic

Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a headache. The mission had been a disaster from start to finish, with every agent involved coming back wounded and three of them in body bags. It was not the STRIKE team’s faults. They had been giving faulty information. It had been thoroughly checked and vetted by multiple people, including Coulson himself and they’d all failed. He’d failed his team and his agents and those who hadn’t made it back; their blood was on his hands. 

He strode through the hall, stopping briefly into each exam room and checking in on his agents. May nodded silently, sitting quietly as a nurse stitched the bullet hole in her shoulder. Jackson and Phillips nodded politely when he poked his head into their rooms. Rollins glowered, eyes smouldering and accusatory as his got his fingers splinted. And Barton...

Barton was sitting on the floor in the hallway, still in full gear with his bow across his lap and blood caked down the side of his face. As unshakable as Coulson’s reputation would claim, the sight of one of his newest agents sitting in a bloody mess in the middle of the medical wing brought him up short. He blinked, unable to quite comprehend what he was seeing. 

He knew Barton was difficult, knew it when he’d made the deal with the young man to keep him out of prison. The dangerously stubborn glint in his eye and the cocky attitude, as if it had been Coulson chained to that table instead. He followed orders barely, skirting the line of outright insubordination. Although never with Coulson. Somehow he’d gained a begrudging respect from the archer. 

And medical was always an issue. Coulson wasn’t sure if it was something from the young man’s past, although given that the medical reports showed old scars and injuries consistent with early abuse it wouldn’t be a stretch. Barton fought medical staff tooth and nail, griping and bitching the whole way. And if he was still coming down from a mission-fuelled adrenaline high, he could be dangerous. The worst had been bruises and one broken nose but that was enough for most of the staff to want to give the archer a wide birth. 

Still, all of that didn’t excuse the fact that there was an injured SHIELD agent sitting on the floor and no one was doing anything about it. Coulson forced himself out of his stupor and took a step, the first and foremost thing in his mind to get the archer medical attention and the second to find out who was responsible for the neglect of one of his agents, when someone beat him to both. 

“The hell is wrong with you?” a male voice snapped from somewhere off to Coulson’s right. “An agent is in need of medical attention and you leave him bleeding on the hallway floor because he’s too difficult to deal with?!” 

Coulson turned, seeing a dark haired man in dirtied field gear and sweat soaked hair staring down a pair of nurses. He recognized him as one of the medics who had been a part of the extraction team. The first nurse to speak was a barrel chested man with beady eyes and a nasty air. “Barton’s a liability,” he said dismissively. “Lashes out when we try and treat him. He’s unpredictable and I’m not risking my skin or that of my nurses to treat a couple bruises and a scraped cheekbone.”

Coulson spared a glance at Barton. The man hadn’t moved an inch. It was difficult to tell if at this distance he could hear what was being said. The other agents were talking in hushed tones but then again the archer did have exceptional hearing. 

“H—he told us he was fine,” the second nurse stammered.

“That,” the medic snarled, pointing a finger down the hall in the archer’s direction. “Is not fine. And it’s your job to treat him, regardless of how difficult he is. You took oaths, for Christ’s sake. Fucking act like it.”

“What would you know? You’re just a field medic,” the first nurse snapped but the medic was already walking away towards the archer. Coulson took a few steps, planning to intervene if things went sideways. But then the medic stopped. He crouched low, bringing himself into Barton’s sight line while keeping a cautious distance.

“Agent Barton,” the medic said, using a soft but firm tone. “The rest of your team has been looked after. I think it’s your turn now, what do you say?”

“Said ‘m fine,” was the mumbled response. 

“And I say bullshit,” the medic said without missing a beat. Barton’s head snapped up as if on a string, eyes wide and startled. His hand tightened around his bow on reflex. The medic shifted, making sure both of his hands were clearly empty as he continued. “It looks like you’ve lost a lot of blood and—.”

“It’s not mine,” Barton interrupted. 

Coulson couldn’t see the medic’s face but he had the distinct impression the man was raising an eyebrow sardonically. “Including what’s coming from that head lac and the hole in your shoulder?” he asked pointedly. Barton flushed, looking away as his fingers worried at his bow’s handgrip. 

“The others are hurt worse,” he tried.

The medic wasn’t having any of it. “And they are receiving treatment as we speak,” he insisted. Barton just set his jaw mulishly and ignored the dark haired man. It was an expression Coulson was very familiar with. This medic was getting the full Barton treatment and yet he wasn’t backing down. “Hey, you can play injury hide and seek all you like,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “But the only way this ends is with you getting medical attention and if I have to sedate you to make that happen, I will.”

Barton’s back snapped ramrod straight, eyes rolling as his fingers twitched over what Coulson knew to be a row of throwing knifes hidden along the side of his thigh. “Just fuckin’ try it,” he growled. Coulson tensed but the medic just laughed. In the face of being threatened by someone who was quickly becoming one of SHIELD’s most dangerous operatives, he laughed. 

“I’d rather not. I have a feeling you’d lay me out before I could even unholster,” the man chuckled, far more cheerfully than the situation seemed to warrant. It made Coulson pause. It certainly threw Barton, whose whole demeanour shifted from fight or flight to surprised in the blink of an eye. “Look I get it,” the medic continued, his tone turning gentle and a little teasing. “Medical sucks. But I promise that if you let me patch you up I will make it as quick and as painless as possible. And maybe you’ll even get a lollipop at the end of it all.”

Bigger agents than this medic had crumpled under the glare that Barton levelled at the man. As it was the medic simply waited, weight rocked back on his heels. Then the archer snorted, some of the tension finally seeping out of his body. “Don’t fucking touch my bow,” he growled. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the man promptly replied.

He stood, offering his hand to the archer. Barton stared at it for a long moment before clasping his own around the medic’s wrist. “Better be the purple lollipops,” he grumbled as he allowed the other man to pull him to his feet. 

“Obviously,” the medic replied, ignoring Barton’s protests as he slung the archer’s arm unencumbered by the bow over his shoulder. “Purple is the best flavour,” he added as they made their way down the hallway away from Coulson. 

“Damn right,” he heard the archer mutter and then the two men disappeared around the corner. Coulson allowed himself a brief moment of wonder at what had just transpired before making his way towards the front desk with the intent to not only fire those two nurses but also to find out the name of that medic and to make sure that he was assigned to Agent Barton’s care as often as possible. 

**********************************

Natasha watched Clint stalk the edges of the quarantine tent like a caged tiger. She let him pace a few more laps but when he still showed no signs of slowing, she put her foot down. “Will you please just sit down?” she sighed, crossing her arms to squash the urge to fidget herself. His constant movement was making her twitchy.

He froze, hands tightening on his hips and sending wrinkles up and down his powder blue scrubs. He was barefoot and it made him look younger for some reason. More vulnerable. “Sorry,” he murmured. He swallowed, jaw muscles twitching. Now he stood stalk still, nothing moving but the soft rise and fall of his chest and she couldn’t tell if he was just being a little shit or if he was really that lost in his head. 

After a moment he moved and threw himself down onto the cot set in the far corner. She tracked his movement closely, watching the way his shoulders were tense even while he slumped bonelessly over his knees. The way his hands kept moving, fingers picking at the bottom of his scrub top. 

“It’s not your fault,” she told him. 

His cheek twitched. “I couldn’t stop her,” he confessed softly. She had to strain to hear him through the plastic walls. “She never even hesitated,” he continued, scrubbing a weary hand down his face. “She just smiled and released the spores and I...I didn’t have a choice.” 

Natasha stifled a sigh. She knew what he was talking about. The lab had been massive with multiple people working on multiple projects, often having nothing to do with each other’s work. There had been thirty-six other people working in the lab when Clint had been forced to lock it down with the pathogen and its creator inside. Thirty-six people who had no idea their coworker was a terrorist creating a bio weapon right under their noses. 

“They died bad, ‘Tash,” he whispered. “And slow.” 

She unfolded herself from the uncomfortable plastic chair that had been her perch and rounded the plastic box till she was beside the archer. She crouched down, waiting until he finally dragged his gaze up from his feet to meet hers. His eyes were bloodshot and hectic around the edges. 

“You killed thirty-six people to save millions,” she said. She told it to him straight, no bullshit. It was a silent promise that they’d made to each other at the beginning of their partnership. “Because that’s what we do. We make the tough calls.” He nodded stiffly. She knew that he understood that. It was just that sometimes he needed reminding. 

She heard the whisperings about them. How they were barely even human, sent into no win situations to come out with barely a scratch. Emotionless, unfeeling, uncaring. The mission is all. Love is for children. And maybe in her case it was true to an extent. But those people never got to see Clint like this, holding back tears as he mourned bitterly for people he’d never met, hating himself for the part he’d played. The fact that he trusted her with this side of him was a gift she would never take for granted. 

“I want their names,” he breathed. 

Perhaps it wasn’t the best coping method but if he needed to memorize each of those thirty-six scientist’s names to be able to live with what he had done than who was she to judge. “I’ll get you a list,” she promised. 

Then the door opened and Clint scrubbed a hand quickly over his eyes, wiping away any last traces of moisture that had gathered there. A dark haired man with pale blue eyes and a medic insignia stitched into his shirt front slipped inside. “They’re sending a medic to do a doctor’s job now?” she commented accusingly, eyes narrowing. 

“Tasha,” she heard Clint murmur warningly.  Don’t start anything,  was what that meant. She ignored him. If those cowards in medical were stiffing her partner by sending a field medic instead of a real doctor because they considered him too difficult or not a priority patient, they had another thing coming. 

The medic himself didn’t seem phased by the fact the Black Widow was currently staring daggers into his soul. “They’re a bit slammed at the moment,” he said in a pleasing baritone, placing the tray on the little table set up by the gloved inserts in the plastic wall. “I promise you, Agent Romanoff, I can draw a blood sample with the best of them.” 

“Leave the man alone, Nat,” Clint said with a sigh as he crossed the small cage to stand in front of the medic, rolling up his sleeve without a whisper of protest. His lips twitched into the slightest smile, eyes warming as he met the medic’s gaze. There was a flicker of something in the medic’s eyes in response, something which didn’t go unnoticed by Natasha. Affection mixed with a healthy dose of worry carefully hidden underneath. Interesting. 

She watched closely as the medic drew a few vials of blood, slipping them through a little window into a sealed container. He took vitals, asked a few questions to which Clint replied without a fuss. For someone who usually fought medical personnel tooth and nail, often going home with more than a few injuries untreated, the archer was certainly being forthcoming. 

“There we go,” the medic said lightly, retracting his hands from the glove inserts and picking up the container. “Results will be a few hours but the fact you haven’t started showing symptoms by now means you’re likely in the clear,” he said, that same look flickering through his pale eyes. With a polite nod in Natasha’s direction and another lingering glance at Clint, the medic took his leave.

“Not a word,” Clint said sternly the moment the door closed behind the medic. Natasha held her hands up in surrender, deciding not to push him about the way his eyes had lit up at the sight of the dark haired medic. At least for now. 

*************************************

It had been bad. Steve tugged his helmet off with a weary hand, the other raking through his sweat soaked hair before scrubbing roughly down his face. It had been bad. Anything with kids always was but this....

They’d kept them in cages, experimenting on them like rats as they tried to unlock latent super human abilities. Who knows how long they’d been in operation, practically under their noses in the basement of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Philly. The Avengers had been able to rescue eight kids. The oldest couldn’t have been a day over twelve.

Three had been too far gone to help.

Steve took a steadying breath as he pushed back the tears that threatened the corners of his eyes. There would be time to grieve but not right now. Right now he couldn’t be Steve, whose insides were currently in knots and he didn’t know if he’d rather bury himself in blankets or attack a heavy bag until it split. Right now, he had to be Captain America and he had to check on his team. 

Natasha sat off to one side with Bruce, close but not touching as she spoke to him in hushed tones. Every once in a while a flicker of green would chase across the doctor’s face. Even though she had her back to him, Natasha turned as if she sensed Steve watched. She probably did. Her face was impassive as always but her eyes were haunted and grim, giving away more emotion than the former Russian assassin usually did. She nodded once, briskly. She had this covered. 

With a weary nod, Steve stepped around the outer corner of the building to the front where the rest of the team was, along with SHIELD personnel and medics. Hill was the closest, keeping a young pair of twins they’d rescued from the compound distracted as a medic took their vitals. Tony was talking animatedly with a couple of agents in suits while Rhodes stood nearby, clearly playing mediator to the billionaire’s temper. Whatever was being discussed seemed to require a lot of hand gestures on Tony’s part. 

And Clint...

Clint sat on the back bumper of an SUV, staring blankly into space. His bow was gone but he still had his quiver and gauntlets. Blood snaked down his arm like a river where one of the scientists had stabbed him with a scalpel, now tacky and caked with dirt. Even as Steve took a step forward, incensed that no one had seen to the archer’s injuries yet, a medic stepped forward. He said something to Clint, to which the archer just shook his head and started to move away. After that, everything happened so fast. 

The medic reached out, hand wrapping around Clint’s wrist. In the next breath, the medic was on the ground, blood pouring from his nose, and Clint was gone. Steve could only stare. Every single one of the Avengers had issues with doctors and hospitals, Clint most of all, but Steve had never seen his teammate strike a medical professional. That was going too far. 

The medic was already being helped to his feet by a fellow agent as Steve crossed the gravel lot. “Goddamn psycho,” the man snapped. “Can’t believe they cleared him after what happen in New York. Should be fucking committed.”

Steve bristled at the slight towards his teammate but just as he opened his to defend him, someone beat him to it. “If anyone needs their head examined, it’s you,” the newcomer said sternly. He was tall, about Steve’s height but not as broad. Dark hair cropped short on the sides had been left longer on top, in soft curls. His eyes were blue, pale and icy, and he had the armband insignia marking him as another medic. 

“He broke my fucking nose,” the shorter medic cried. 

“You put hands on him,” the man stated flatly as he felt the other man’s nose with his thumbs. While his tone was even and calm, his pale eyes blazed. “Agent Barton is a highly trained operative less than an hour out of a combat situation. He’s wound to a hair trigger and you thought it’d be a good idea to get grabby with him. You’re lucky it wasn’t your throat. And that’s a testament to his training, not yours.” 

The other medic shrunk in on himself, all the righteous anger completely deflating from him under the other medic’s icy glare. “It’s not broken,” the dark haired agent continued crisply, stripping off his latex gloves with a snap. “Put some ice on it and don’t let me see you on my rotation until you’ve relearned the basics of treating agents post combat.” 

And with that, he bent to scoop up the other medic’s discarded kit and stalked off in the same direction Clint disappeared. Steve was impressed. He’d seem army generals who couldn’t deliver such an effective dressing down. He spared a quick glance at the injured medic, currently being escorted back to one of the ambulances, before hurrying after the dark haired agent. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Clint. He trusted the archer with his life but if Clint was still stuck in his head, Steve didn’t want a repeat performance or worse. 

It didn’t take him long to find his teammate. As he rounded the outer corner of the building, he caught sight of a thatch of spiky blonde hair through a window that had been blown out during the raid. Clint’s back was to him, pressed against the wall beside the ruined window. His head was bowed, knees bent and his hands hanging limply from them.

The dark haired medic was just taking a last step, coming to stop a few feet back from the archer. And then he did something Steve was not expecting. He set the heavy medical bag to the side and sat down on the dusty cracked ground. 

“You hit your head at all?” he asked softly. It was a long wait but the man was patient. Finally Steve saw Clint’s head shake slightly. “Any loss of consciousness?” the medic asked next. Another head shake. “Dizziness or nausea? Blurred vision? Touched or inhaled any unknown substances? Difficulty or pain when breathing?” 

After each question, the medic would wait patiently for Clint to answer him. Never once did he rush the archer. Halfway through the list, the dark haired agent turned to rummage in the kit, producing a water bottle. He kept asking questions as he drew a small packet from his pocket and upended the contents into the bottle. The water turned a pale purple colour that Steve recognized as one of those electrolyte supplements they all carried in their personal emergency kits. Clint always preferred the purple ones. Steve blinked but it was probably just a coincidence that the medic happened to be carrying the archer’s favourite flavour. 

“On a scale of paper cut to gut stab, how much pain are you in?” the dark haired man asked as he opened the water bottle and took a deliberate sip, like he was proving it wasn’t drugged. And maybe he was. With the archer’s long history of espionage, he’d probably be wary of anything he didn’t prepare himself. The dark haired man capped the bottle again and then rolled it across the uneven floor. It came to a stop directly between the archer’s boots. Clint stared at it numbly before picking it up with stiff fingers.

“Paper cut,” he rasped, voice cracking. He cracked the bottle and downed half of it before continuing. “If the paper cut had lemon juice and sand rubbed into it,” he added as he snapped the cap, sending it flying to land neatly in a nearby trashcan. That got a crooked smirk from the medic and Steve watched as the man pulled antiseptic wipes and gauze pads from his kit. He held them up, wiggling them slightly. Clint huffed, fiddling with the broken plastic ring that had sealed the water bottle. “Knock yourself out,” he muttered.

“I can talk you through it, if you’d rather,” the medic offered, making no move to come closer. 

“It’s fine,” Clint shrugged. 

The dark haired medic grabbed a few more things from the kit before slowly moving to crouch beside the archer. He laid everything out in plain sight before pulling nitrile gloves on. He cleaned the wound, wiping away layers of dried blood and dirt with a gentle hand. “This’ll need stitches,” he commented as he pressed a gauze pad over Clint’s bicep to stop the trickle of blood the cleaning had caused. 

“So stitch it,” the blonde muttered. 

“We should get you back to—,” the medic tried. 

“No,” the archer interrupted harshly, hands clenching around the water bottle with a harsh crackle. His eyes flicked up and Steve hurriedly stepped back into the shadow of the corner to avoid being caught eavesdropping. “Can you just do it? Please?” Clint breathed, voice so quiet that even Steve with his serum-enhanced hearing barely heard. 

Steve had never heard the archer beg like that before. He knew the archer hated SHIELD medical, they all did, but this felt different. This ran deeper that just a hatred of needles and the smell of bleach and someone else fussing over you. It could be something in the archer’s past but Steve had a feeling it was something else. He made a mental note to follow up on how the other SHIELD agents had been treating the archer in the wake of Loki’s mind control. 

Something unseen seemed to pass between the two men. It crackled in the air between them, going deeper than the simple relationship of medic and unruly patient. “Okay,” the medic murmured, finally relenting. “Okay, hold this.” The tension drained out of Clint in an instant. He placed a dirt covered hand atop the pristinely white gauze as the medic moved back to the kit. “Eat,” the man said, tossing a power bar at Clint blindly as he dug out the suture kit. 

Clint caught it deftly, ripping the corner open with his teeth. “You know, one of these days you’re gonna smack me in the face doing that,” he said dryly, further cementing in Steve’s mind that the two men had known each other for a while. 

“If the day ever comes that you don’t catch something I throw at you, I’ll know to be truly worried,” the medic replied dryly, kneeling beside the archer once more. Clint cracked a smile, the ghost of a chuckle spilling from his lips. They sat in silence after that while the medic sterilized around the wound and started stitching it. After the first stitch was tied off, Steve backed away quietly, content in the knowledge that the archer was clearly in good hands. 

*************************************

Bruce sat in the corner of the transport in SHIELD issue sweatpants and hoody and a scratchy wool blanket around his shoulders. The evacuees were scattered about, most covered in dust and debris, many bleeding. Medics and agents swarmed around, a hive of movement and energy. 

“No. No, I’m fine,” a familiar voice muttered, sounding so very tired. A gap formed in the crowd and Bruce could see Clint waving off a medic, as per usual for the archer. He watched the blonde stumble to a seat, hand hovering over his side. He was staring at something, sweat-soaked hair sticking up in unruly directions. 

As the crowd thinned, Bruce got the chance to see what was holding the archer’s attention and his stomach dropped. Ice white hair, a blue-gray suit now covered in far too much red. He watched as Clint tipped sideways, lying down along the seats in a mirror image to how Pietro’s body lay. His arm fell over the edge, fingers hanging limply above the young man’s still chest. Bruce watched the blonde’s lips move and then his eyes slip shut. 

Another wave of Sokovians and agents obscured Bruce’s view. “Agents, secure the injured for transport,” a static-laced voice crackled over the speakers. A moment later and there was a harsh mechanical growl as the transport lifted into the air and whisked them up towards the Helicarrier. The doctor dropped his blanket, hair whipping in the wind as he wove his way towards the archer. He crouched beside the speedster, checking the boy’s pulse out of habit but knowing that he’d feel nothing but cooling skin under his fingers. Then he turned his focus to the archer. 

Clint was pale and sweaty, which wasn’t unusual given the circumstances. What was unusual, and worrying, was the blood that stained the side of his uniform, just under his ribs. “Agent Barton,” Bruce said in alarm, knowing better than to try and touch the archer when he was asleep or unconscious. He knew all too well his own reactions when that happened to him. He could only imagine the agent had similar triggers.

“Clint,” he stressed, louder now that the archer hadn’t responded the first time. He didn’t get so much as an eyelid twitch. “I need a medic!” he called out over the wind. He’d barely gotten the words out when there was a light touch to his wrist and he looked up into blue eyes as pale as ice. 

“I got him,” the medic said, something in his tone hinting at some deeper meaning but Bruce couldn’t quite out his finger on it. He relented and took a step back until his knees hit the row of seats across the way and he slumped into them. He watched with a protective eye as the medic reached out a hand, not towards the archer’s ribs, but to his ankle. “Agent Barton,” the newcomer said softly as he placed his hand on the man’s boot. When nothing happened he called the man’s name again, squeezing gently. The archer stirred, fingers twitching. 

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled. 

“Clint, I need you to wake up,” the medic said firmly as the transport glided neatly into the bowels of the massive carrier. The archer blinked blearily, finally seeing who was in front of him. “You’re bleeding,” the medic explained. “We gotta get you patched up, okay?” Clint nodded, wincing as he pushed himself up onto an elbow. They all rocked sideways as they settled into the docking port. The medic turned, waving a hand to a couple agents approaching with a stretcher. 

“I can walk,” Clint huffed.

“It’s not for you,” the dark haired man murmured. 

Clint froze as the meaning of those words hit home. It hit Bruce too and he had to look away. It was too much. He hadn’t know the kid long. More than half that time had been spent fighting him and his sister but...oh god, Wanda. Did she even know that her brother was dead? 

A harsh scraping sound brought Bruce back to the present. Clint’s fingers were digging into the seat, nails scraping against the plastic as he stared glassy eyed down at the speedster. Bruce could see the muscles of his jaw jumping, the tension cording up his neck. Maybe it was a trick of the light but it looked like single shimmering tear raced its way down the side of Clint’s nose before disappearing off his top lip. 

The medic ducked his head, trying to catch the archer’s eyes. He placed his other hand lightly on the archer’s shoulder and that’s when it hit Bruce that the two men definitely knew each other outside of their prospective professions. Or at least had worked together for a long time. No one was so casual with physical contact with the archer save for Natasha.

“We’ve got him from here,” the dark haired man murmured. 

After a long, painful moment Clint nodded once, a quick jerky motion. The medic moved to the side, still keeping his hand on the blonde’s ankle. They all watched silently as the agents carefully placed Pietro on the stretcher and carried him away. 

“Let’s get you to medical,” the medic murmured. Clint dragged his eyes back to the dark haired man with clear reluctance. Slowly, telegraphing all his movements clearly, the medic brought Clint’s arm over his shoulders, supporting his injured side as they stood. Clint’s knees immediately buckled. Bruce was at the archer’s other side in an instant. 

“I can fuckin’ walk,” Clint growled but made no move to release the death grip he currently had on Bruce’s shoulder. The medic threw a grateful look in Bruce’s direction as the three of them made the slow journey to the medical wing. 

The med bay was another bustle of bodies, doctors and nurses carrying for civilians and agents injured in the evacuation. Bruce could feel Clint tense, fingers going stiff where they gripped his sweater. The medic kept them moving however, further down the hall before stopping to punch in a code on a locked door.

The room was a small exam room with a bed against the far wall and a sink and cupboards opposite. They got Clint sitting down on the edge of the bed and then Bruce took a step back, allowing the medic to take over. With deft fingers that spoke to previous practise, the dark haired man made quick work of the buckles and zippers that made up Clint’s armoured vest. He undressed the archer down to his singlet, placing the armour in a heap on the floor. 

“There’s an exit wound,” the medic said as he pressed a gauze pad to the archer’s back, moving Clint’s own hand to press another pad to the wound on the front. “Dr. Banner, on your way out would you mind dropping by the med bay and asking Dr. Price to swing by isolation room six with a suture kit please?” 

Bruce knew a dismissal when he heard it, however politely worded. He saw the way Clint’s free hand was white knuckling the side of the bed, the way he kept his head ducked and avoiding eye contact. He was holding onto his composure by tooth and nail and clearly didn’t want extra eyes around when it finally failed. “Of course,” he murmured. The medic threw him a grateful look before returning his attention to the archer before him. Bruce slipped out without another word, albeit very curious as to who this mystery medic was.

*************************************

Tony retracted his faceplate with a sigh, wiping sweat from his brow as his suit folded back. He glanced around the wreckage of the downtown strip as the last of it retracted and went into sentry mode. Chunks of debris littered the street. Crushed and burning cars, glass everywhere, not to mention the sparking remains of whatever the villain of the week had unleashed on them. Fucking robots. Fucking magic. Fucking magic robots. 

The team was scattered about, helping with triage and organizing the clean up. Steve was speaking with a SHIELD agent who’d just arrived on sight. Wanda were helping survivors out of various buildings while Sam cleared the rooftops. The Widow and Barton sat a little ways off, the latter wrapping gauze around the former’s forearm. 

A rumble of engines announced SUVs and ambulances as they swerved around debris before coming to a stop. More SHIELD agents, medics this time, poured out of the cars while EMTs grabbed bags from their rigs. One medic, dark haired and broad shouldered, started shouting orders. There was more pointing and the agents and EMTs split up and started triage. 

The medic in charge took a moment to scan the streets before he beelined it over to where Barton and Natasha sat. Tony watched as the man crouched down a respectful distance away. He was too far away to hear what was being said but whatever it was made Barton grin, teeth shining white against the cement dust that covered most of him. 

Tony watched the archer gestured to his ribs and then to his foot which was currently propped up on a hunk of cement. He flapped a dismissive hand towards the medic in true Barton style. Natasha also waved the man away, pointing to the gauze on her arm with a smirk. Tony saw the medic’s shoulders heave with a sigh. He said something that required a stern finger in Barton’s direction, to which the archer raised his hands in surrender, and then he strode off towards the closest group of injured. 

Tony lost track of time as he was dragged into securing the artifact that had cause all the hubbub in the first place. Strange was there with his condescending commends and flippant hand gestures. Steve called it ‘ helping ’ but Tony wasn’t that generous. It was hours later when he walked out of the building and back onto the street. It was only stragglers left now, all the critically injured gone and the clean up crews beginning their work. 

And Barton was exactly where he had been all those hours later. He was lounging against the side of a wrecked car, his foot still elevated but now his boot was missing and there was an ice pack resting on top of his ankle. Natasha was also gone. In her place was the dark haired medic from before. With a shake of his head, the medic slung his kit over his shoulder and stood, making grabby hands at the archer. As Tony watched, Barton scowled and then handed the medic his bow without a lick of resistance. 

Tony couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Clint Don’t-Fucking-Touch-My-Bow Barton, who barely even let Natasha handle it without a fight; who practically had separation anxiety whenever Tony did upgrades; who probably slept with the goddamn thing in his bed, had just willingly handed his weapon over and to a medic of all people. A medic who in turn took the bow and with a practised flick of his wrist, collapsed the bow down to it’s carry mode. 

After which the dark haired man carefully got the archer to his feet. He wrapped an arm around Barton’s waist, supporting his injured side as they made their slow way towards the evac point. Tony just stared. He didn’t care who noticed, not that anyone did. He kept staring until the two men had disappeared behind the wreckage of a bus. 

“Jarvis, I need you to find out everything you can about that medic.”

*************************************

“Keep those civilians back!” Steve roared as the team surged through the carnage. Smoke poured out of the building as people stumbled about, covered in dust and blood. Everyone was screaming, chunks of concrete and glass shards everywhere.

The bomb had detonated at eight in the morning, right at the height of rush hour. This time it wasn’t aliens or sorcerers or science experiments gone wrong. It was just people. Horrible barbaric people. 

Sirens blared as ambulances and police vehicles roared up to the police barrier. Bodies swarmed out, rushing to people’s aid. Barton was running back towards the barriers, a young girl in his arms bleeding heavily from her temple. Steve spotted the dark haired medic he had seen before weaving through the crowd towards the archer. The medic didn’t stop as he passed but he slowed down long enough to clasp a hand to the archer’s bicep in passing. 

The next few minutes was lost to the chaos but everyone felt it the moment before it happened. The air went still, a prickling feeling creeping up everyone’s necks. And then the second bomb went off. 

They saw it first. The massive plume of smoke and dust as the front of the already ruined building exploded out into the street. The shockwave hit them next, an invisible hand smacking them back even as the sound assaulted their ears with a roar. 

Everything was muffled after that. A loud persistent ringing echoed in everyone’s ears. Limbs were slow to respond as the team and other agents struggled to their feet. Steve wrenched his eyes away from the bodies of the SHIELD agents, civilians, and EMTs alike that lay strewn amongst the rubble like broken dolls. He caught Natasha’s eyes, knowing that the horror he saw in her eyes was reflected back in his own. 

The bastards had planned it. The first bomb to cause chaos and casualties, the second to take out the first responders and anyone else who came in the first wave. Those that were coming to help. “But...we cleared the building,” someone stammered. Steve recognized the man as one of the agents on the bomb squad. “I don’t understand. We cleared the building. It was clear. There wasn’t...it was clear.”

A single word, more like a soft exhale rather than an actual “No,” was the only warning Steve had before Clint was sprinting full tilt past him. His arm snapped out, latching onto the archer’s quiver strap and hauling him back. 

As quick as a snake Clint whipped around, going up under Steve’s arm to face him. A hand gripped the front of Steve’s uniform, forearm muscles rippling. His eyes were flat and emotionless; everything about him seemed so calm and controlled. Steve didn’t believe in that composure for a second. 

“Let go,” Clint stated flatly. 

“No,” replied Steve. 

“Let me go,” he growled warningly. 

“I can’t.”

“Steve—.”

“What if there’s a third bomb?”

“I don’t care,” Clint snapped through clenched teeth. His jaw muscle leaped as the first crack in his composure appeared. 

“I do,” Steve replied calmly. 

“Steve you—,” he stumbled, throwing a wild look back over his shoulder towards the wreckage. “You don’t understand,” he pleaded, looking back at the taller man. “You have to let me go. I have to...” he cut himself off, breath hitching. 

“I know,” Steve tried but the archer wasn’t hearing him. 

“No, I need to—.”

“Clint,” Steve interrupted sharply. The archer’s eyes snapped up to his. “I know,” he murmured, watching as the shorter man’s eyes widen, realization flooding in. He knew what it was like to stand on the sidelines when the people you cared about were in danger. It was the worst feeling in the world, being helpless like that. “I’ll find him,” he promised. “But you keep your ass on this side of the barrier until the bomb squad has re-cleared the area.”

Clint’s eyes bore into him. The archer’s entire body radiating tension. It was like he was trying to decide whether to trust Steve with something precious. And finally he did. After a moment, he nodded stiffly. His hand loosened on the front of Steve’s uniform. Steve on the other hand didn’t let go. He tightened his grab, grabbing ahold of Clint’s wrist with his free hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. 

Clint’s brow furrowed in confusion before he flinched. His hand clenched, eyes confused and so very vulnerable. Then they were rolling back in his head and he was a dead weight in Steve’s arms. He carefully lay him on the ground, putting him on his side so his quiver wouldn’t bruise his back. He hadn’t for one second believed that the archer would have stayed behind. And he hadn’t been the only one. 

“Didn’t think you had it in you to lie to him like that,” Natasha said as she looked at the empty syringe of sedative she had just jammed into her partner’s neck. 

“I didn’t lie,” he sighed, slinging his shield off his back. Just because he had stopped Clint from running head first into danger didn’t mean he hadn’t been planning on doing the exact same thing himself. Do as he says and all that. Besides, the archer had given up so much in his life, had sacrificed so much. He deserved happiness and Steve was going to do everything in his power to bring that happiness back to him. 

“Steve—,” Natasha was saying but he already running. He ignored the shouts of the agents he passed as he vaulted over the police barrier and disappeared into the smoke. 

The lingering dust stung his eyes. The smoke made it hard to breath, reminding him of asthma attacks from so long ago. He skidded to a halt next to the first person he saw, a young woman sitting in the middle of the street staring at nothing. 

“Can you walk?” he asked as he crouched beside her. She looked up at him, blinking owlishly. Blood trickled down her temple but other than that she seemed to be unharmed. He repeated the question and this time she nodded numbly. 

He pointed to where the flashing police lights could be seeing dancing blue and red off in the smoke. “That way, as quick as you can,” he told her, waiting until she started stumbling down the street before moving on. He sent eight more people towards the police barrier, some helping other. Many he found couldn’t answer and wouldn’t ever again. 

He had halfway up the building steps, steeling himself for what he was going to find inside, when he practically tripped over them. The woman was sprawled out, limbs akimbo. She was bleeding from her abdomen, something only slightly hidden by the pair of hands applying firm pressure over the wound. And those blood stained hands belonged to the medic he’d been looking for. 

“I—.”

“About time you got here,” the medic snapped, barely sparing him a glance over his shoulder. “Find me another medic and a stretcher, we need to move her as soon as—.”

“It’s just me,” Steve interrupted, moving to take a knee beside the medic. The dark haired man threw a startled look up at him, before understanding clouded the pale gaze. He was an agent. He knew the protocols. 

“Fuck,” he muttered quietly. 

“They’re sending the bomb squad back in to clear the area,” Steve started but the darker haired man was shaking his head. 

“She doesn’t have that much time,” he murmured, soft enough that the woman couldn’t hear him. Pale icy eyes pinned Steve to the spot. “You have to take her.”

“Okay, you keep pressure and—.”

“No, you take her now. Leave me.”

“Not going to happen. I—.”

“I can’t walk.”

Those three little words had Steve’s stomach flipping inside out and dropping into the vicinity of his boots. He dragged his eyes down, to the chunk of glass the size of his hand protruding from the medic’s thigh. “Pretty sure my ankle’s broken too. Ribs definitely are,” he was saying, pulling Steve’s eyes back up. Now he saw the pain that was lurking behind his eyes, the tension in his neck and jaw. The way he was breathing, shallow and quick. 

“I can’t walk and she needs you to run,” he said grimly.

Steve swallowed, his back teeth grinding. He didn’t hesitate long but he did for a moment, for Clint’s sake. He slung his shield onto his back and moved to the woman’s other side. He slid his arms carefully under her knees and shoulders. “I’ll be back,” he promised.

“As you say Cap,” the medic said with a crooked smile, clearly not believing him. There wasn’t time to call him out on it because then he removed his hands and Steve was running. 

It took him even less time to get back to the police barrier. He was immediately met by EMTs who whisked the woman away. He paused only long enough to take his shield back down before he was turning back. A hand grabbed at his arm and he paused, looking down at the police commissioner. “Captain, wait for the bomb squad,” he pleaded. “What are you going to do, carry them all back one by one?”

“If I have to,” he replied grimly.

It took Steve longer to get back, as he wasn’t about to leave those he found just lying in the street. He made four additional trips before he finally made it back to the steps. The medic’s eyes were closed when he returned but they flickered open as Steve dropped to a knee beside him. They were pain-filled and glassy, breath rapid and shallow. “Now it’s your turn,” Steve said as he bend to scoop the medic into his arms, but as soon as he moved to stand the smaller man let out a harsh cry. 

He immediately stopped lifting, eyes widening in alarm. The man’s lips were white, jaw muscles twitching as his hands fluttered over his abdomen. “Think it’s more t-than...just a b-broken....rib,” he stuttered. Steve watched as he pulled up his shirt as far as his tac vest would allow. “Shit,” the medic breathed as both man stared down at the deep bruising scattered across the man’s belly, indicating the severity of the internal bleeding. 

“This is gonna hurt,” Steve said grimly.

The dark haired agent choked out a harsh noise that was almost a laugh but more of a grimace as Steve picked him up bridal style. “I usually insist a guy buys me a drink before I let him manhandle me like this,” the medic said weakly. “You should feel special. Made Clint buy me t-three....rounds before....I....” 

Steve amused grin slipped as the medic’s words trailed off and his head fell limply against the blonde’s shoulder. He watched frozen until he confirmed the medic’s chest was continuing to rise and fall, albeit shallowly. There was a roar overhead and Iron Man crackled through the comms, confirming there was not another explosive device. Steve let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and strode towards help.

“Clint, I—.”

“Save it,” the archer spat as he shoved his way past Steve’s bulk which had been blocking most of the ambulance door. It was clear Steve would have followed him but a small restraining hand on his forearm stopped him. Steve swallowed thickly. “I didn’t know,” he said softly, staring at the archer’s retreating back. “I didn’t know he had someone.”

“None of us did,” Natasha replied calmly. 

“You did,” Steve said, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. Natasha just shrugged, her shoulders rippling gracefully. 

“Would it have made a difference?” she asked after a moment. Steve opened his mouth because of course it would have. And then he stopped himself because he wasn’t that naive. It wouldn’t have changed anything. They all had jobs where the likelihood that they might not come back from a mission was high, Clint and Natasha especially. It didn’t matter if they had families waiting for them at home or not. The only difference it made was that it was harder to send them into the no-win situations knowing they had someone waiting for them to come home. 

“Exactly,” Natasha said quietly. 

The next few weeks were awkward. The tension between Clint and Steve was practically palpable. The rest of the team didn’t understand, minus Natasha, and neither man was in a hurry to enlighten them. Clint because he was barely ever in the same room as everyone anymore and Steve because it wasn’t his story to tell. But then a month later Clint saved Steve’s head from being caved in by the newest baddie and Steve returned the favour by saving Clint from a twelve story fall when the floor was blown out from underneath them. 

After that mission, Clint cornered Steve outside the common room of the tower. He didn’t say anything, just pulled Steve into a bone-crushing hug that left both of them glassy eyed. Life rebalanced after that. 

It was a peaceful eight months before there was some sort of large scale disaster that had the whole team pulled into the field. They were able to deal with it quickly and the only injury was Clint, who’d gotten his bell run pretty intensely when the Hulk had turned too quickly and accidentally backhanded the archer into a wall. 

“I am so sorry,” Bruce said for the millionth time as the team sat on the loading ramp of the quinjet waiting for Hill and a cleanup crew to arrive. Tony was sans armour, sitting lower down with a protein shake and sunglasses perched low on his nose. Steve was leaning against the hydraulic pillar and Wanda sat cross legged beside Clint. 

“Not your fault,” Clint sighed, also for the millionth time, as he adjusted the ice pack on the back of his head. “Really, I’m fine doc. Barely a scratch on—ow!” He flinched, glaring at Natasha who had just jabbed her fingers into his side. 

“Right, vest off,” she ordered briskly, pulling another ice pack from the jet’s first aid kit. Clint huffed dramatically but did as he was told. He winced as she helped him get his arms out of his armour, leaving him in a black singlet. 

“Woah, hold up,” Tony suddenly blurted out, pushing his sunglasses up into his sweat soaked hair. “That’s some nice bling, birdbrain. Anything you wanna tell us?” 

All eyes turned to Clint who at first looked confused. He followed Tony’s gaze down to his own chest and then blanched. Hanging there, nestled above his heart on a long chain, was a simple gold band. 

Natasha threw a look down to Steve, who was watching Clint like a hawk. The others had gravitated closer, eyes curious. Under the scrutiny, the blonde archer flushed, red staining up his ears. “Uhhhh,” he said intelligently. 

He was saved from having to answer as four black SUVs pulled up and agents in black stepped out. One was a familiar face to them all, with pale blue eyes and dark hair left curly on top. “Lemme guess,” the medic said with an amused smirk as he strode up the ramp towards them. “You defeated the bad guy without a scratch and then tripped over your shoe laces.”

“Something like that,” Clint muttered, rubbing his palms against his thighs in an uncharacteristic show of nervous energy. 

“Merida here was just about to explain when the hell he got hitched and why he neglected to tell any of us,” Tony proclaimed loudly. The medic’s grin flickered, just a little, something only Natasha took notice of. “I mean seriously,” Tony continued as the medic walked up the ramp and crouched down in front of Clint. “We’ve been a team how long? How is this the first we are hearing of this? Are you ashamed of us, Legolas? Is that what it is? No, worse. You’re ashamed of her!”

The medic’s cheek twitched. It was slight, quickly covered by a professionally controlled expression but Steve saw it. Wanda clocked it too, her brow furrowing as she frowned slightly. Natasha didn’t say anything but her eyes were sharp and taking in everything. 

“Let’s get you patched up,” the medic said with a crooked smile that was just a little brittle around the edges. He reached forward, scooping up the ring and moving to tuck it back under the archer’s undershirt, but Clint stopped him. The medic’s eyes snapped up, hard and unreadable but Clint held the icy gaze easily.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he said softly. 

The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. Everyone could feel it. A bomb could have gone off and no one would have noticed. Something was happening between the two men, some silent communication. The medic was frozen, muscles tight with tension. Clint looked far more relaxed but there was a fear lurking behind his eyes, a tightness around his mouth.

“Huh,” Tony exclaimed, breaking the spell and making everyone jump. “Would yah look at that? Mrs. Hawkeye is a mister.” 

Instead of taking offence Clint’s face split into a massive grin, the tension draining from the air between the two men. “I guess it’s kinda past time for introductions,” he said, never once looking away from the medic’s eyes. A slight blush crept across the medic’s cheeks but the team all saw the way his thumb was gently brushing back and forth across Clint’s bruised knuckles. 

“Guys,” Clint said, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from his medic and looking at each of them in turn. “This is Julian.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little diddy that popped into my mind and refused to come out. I hope you enjoyed the read! Feedback is my fairydust! I had it in my head to maybe continue this pairing a little so please let me know if you’d like to read more! 
> 
> Xx


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